“N—” Isabella bit down on her protest. To honor Stephen’s love she should support him. Through burning eyes she watched the duke seated across from her smooth his clean-shaven narrow chin.
“There has been enough fighting for one day.” Duke Henry looked directly at her. “What do you say in reply to these accusations, my lady? Are you a witch? You certainly appear to have charmed my armorer.”
Isabella looked at Stephen. He would not meet her eye. For an instant she doubted. Does he think I have bewitched him? Then she thought of all their time together, their joy in each other and their children, and her world steadied again.
With a graceful acknowledgment to the duke, Isabella rose, but before she could answer him, her mother-in-law shoved through the mass of people. Clearly seeing her chance, the older woman fought her way to the gap at the front of the room to address Duke Henry.
“You will hear her, my lord, before me, a good Christian woman who lost her son to this creature?” Encouraged by the stunned silence, Margery went on. “My boy married her to put an end to a dispute between two families. She could not even bring that peace.”
“Why was that?” the duke inquired.
Margery did not want to answer that. She puffed up her chest like a strutting hen. “Her care of my grandson is negligent. As for her latest paramour, a man no better than a smith—”
The burning fuse that had been lit in Isabella’s head by these grotesque accusations exploded. “My care of Matthew?” she interrupted, stepping forward to face the buxom matron. “My little boy, whom you tore from me and kept from me for months? My son whom your kinsman threatened with violence? Matthew was underfed and neglected when Stephen and I tracked him to Kent! As for my lord being a smith, I am proud of that. I am proud of him.”
“Wait.” Stephen stopped her. “They threatened a four year old? You did not tell me.”
I dared not, beloved, can you not understand that? I feared exactly your reaction. Wordlessly she tried to express that thought but Stephen scowled and she hated his displeasure. “I am sorry, Stephen, but… But Sir William said that unless I did as he asked he would beat Matthew.”
Before any could react, even the duke’s men, Stephen wordlessly drew his sword and ran at the goldsmith.
“Stephen!” Isabella snatched at his arm, trying to hold him, but it was like trying to stop a swinging hammer. He tore through her flailing grip and stormed on.
“Fletcher!” roared the duke. “Stand down!”
There was a mighty clash of swords. John, Sir William’s servant, desperately defended his master as Stephen used his own blade like a deadly scythe.
“I have proof!” Isabella yelled, above the shouts of the rest. She flew from the stool onto the dais and dropped to her knees beside the duke. “The fake seals are hidden in a jewel box with a false lid inlaid with green lapis lazuli. Please, my lord, set your men to search for that box.”
“Go,” said the duke, nodding to a group of men guarding the door. His voice and expression were mild but his eyes were sharp. “You recall that very late, my lady.”
“I know.” Terrified the duke might consider Stephen part of this treason, Isabella gabbled, “I saw but did not understand, my lord. Not until today, this very day. My master Stephen knew no part of it, I swear.”
Duke Henry caught her hands and turned them, noting the old scratch scars. He studied her face and Isabella endured his keen gaze flicking to the scar on her forehead where Richard had hit her, the scar on her left ear where Richard had belted her. Whatever he saw must have been enough, for he nodded. “Very well. “ He released her. “You go to Stephen now.”
Skidding across the floor tiles in her haste, Isabella saw John disarmed by a looming Stephen. As his servant crawled away, Sir William’s ruddy face turned sickly-gray. He slumped down, lifting his hands to shield himself. Margery was already shrieking.
“Stephen,” Isabella said urgently. “He is not worth it. Please.”
As if he was a man of metal, Stephen turned slowly to her. His eyes were as cold as she had ever seen them.
“I will gladly take him,” said the duke, behind them both. “In justice he is yours, Fletcher, but even so. I will defer to a lady.”
“Please,” she said again. “For yours and mine.”
“For you, beloved, and no other,” Stephen growled, but he allowed his sword to clatter to the floor. The next moment she had him safe in her arms—or was she in his? It did not matter.
The duke rose. “Take him, Lady Isabella. You are truly worthy of each other and clearly deep in love with no magic but caring. I shall make you a grant of land and expect to dance at your wedding. Now go. Leave your erstwhile… relations to me.”
“My son, my lord,” Isabella began, determined to have that matter also put beyond doubt. Even as she sought to frame the question, the duke anticipated her.
“Matthew—that is his name, yes? Matthew will be forever in your care and your new lord’s. You may be certain he shall lose no portion of his rights. I intend to have words with Sir Nicholas on that issue, very soon.”
Heart hammering, Isabella dropped a curtsey. This was more, far more, than she had hoped. She glanced at Stephen, who still glowered at the goldsmiths. She was not certain he had even heard. “My lord?”
“Go,” the duke interrupted her. “Take him away. Feed him, sit with him, love him and your son. Go on.”
As the duke’s men escorted them out, Isabella could hear Sir William’s desperate pleading. Sir Nicholas and the other foremost members of the goldsmith’s guild were yet to appear—clearly a prudent choice on their part.
“Do not feel sorry for him,” Stephen warned, speaking for the first time in an age as he received his sword back from one of the duke’s men and sheathed it.
“Sorry?” She was astonished he should think that. “My uncle lost all kinship to me when he threatened to hurt my son!”
“Agreed. And now, thanks to the duke, Matthew will have his Martinton rights.”
“You heard that?” Please be pleased.
Stephen snorted. “Sir William made me see blood when he set his miserly brutes on you, but he did not stopper my ears. It is a good result, and just.”
Isabella nodded, sending up a prayer of thanks that Stephen saw it in that way. Thank the holy mother he is so reasonable.
They were walking faster now, hurrying to the river. “How did you remember that hiding place?” Stephen asked her now.
“From your kiss and your eyes,” she said, which was no more than the truth, although Stephen wagged a finger at her, his eyes finally lightening from the storm gray of his earlier dark mood.
“Keep your secret, then, Mistress Angel,” he laughed.
What a relief to see him more himself again. “Truly Stephen, I remembered because your eyes are sometimes the same color and I once saw the inlay come away in Sir William’s hand. I thought he had broken it but then later saw the jewel box whole again, without repair.”
She stopped a moment as her companion took her cool hand in his warm one. “I am listening,” he prompted, and chuckled. “I did not realize you kept such close attention to the color of my eyes, Mistress Angel.”
We are betrothed to be married. I will not blush. I will keep answering. “It was a box Sir William kept close. I thought it was because he was fond of the decoration, but that moveable inlay meant that the box had a secret compartment.”
“Aye, and a girl in a goldsmith’s workshop would notice such things as no repair. Clever lass.” Stephen smiled, weaving his fingers through hers.
“Not so clever. It was only lately that I understood what it meant.” Despite the warm day she shivered. “I understood almost too late.” Thinking of it again, Isabella shook her head. “Let us leave this place,” she said, suddenly weary of intrigue and London. “Let us leave tomorrow, for Kent.”
“Gladly, my heart.” Stephen stopped on the graveled path and kissed her. “Home it is.”
Epilogue
Duke Henry had indeed danced with her at her wedding. He had sent pink and white gowns and veils for her, Amice, Joanna and Bedelia, and gold and black tunics for Stephen and Matthew. Isabella wore her hair loose and knew she had done the right thing when Stephen ran from the church door to meet her coming to their wedding.
It was a merry ceremony with the apple trees of Kent in blossom, blooming late and just for them, it seemed. Matthew and Joanna held the train of her gown between them and Amice perfumed it with a heady mix of spices that made Isabella long for the evening. There was a dark instant when she considered her parents who, although invited to her wedding had not come, but then her family, her true family, gathered her in and all was well again. When the priest announced them to be man and wife, Stephen kissed her for so long that Thomas joked he could have made a suit of mail in the time.
Finally she and Stephen were alone, within the small barn of his Kent house. Amice talked closely to the duke, perhaps of spices. Everyone else was still drinking and singing inside his thatched cottage. Her son Matthew and her new daughter Joanna were dancing, their little faces bright with glee. Joanna was breathing quickly but well and she looked very pretty in her new gown. She had a new gold necklace round her slender throat, given to her by her father, and she carried a lock of gold hair, given to her by Isabella.
My youngsters are beginning to thrive. And now at last Stephen and I are alone. The barn was theirs, hers and Stephen’s. My husband.
Isabella laughed when Stephen tossed her over his shoulder and almost ran up the ladder to the loft with her. Set down, she realized that her man had already been busy up here. The loft was adorned with fresh sheets and pillows, sweet hay, sweet flowers, jugs of cowslips and bluebells. He had brought up flagons of wine, ale and cider. There were cups and plates, a basket of pies, cheeses, dates and sugared fruits.
Stephen popped a piece of sugared peel into her mouth. “Chew, little wife,” he said teasingly.
Chewing, Isabella stared up at him. He looked so splendid in his gold and black tunic, with a gold and black cloak. She swallowed. “I love you.”
“And I worship you, Mistress Angel, mistress mine.” He swept her up again. “Let me show you.”
With a rapt, amazed expression, like a man in a dream, he laid her on a soft bed of linen and hay. They made love all that night, with the birds singing them joyously into the next day and Isabella free of shadows and fear, a goldsmith’s widow no more, rather a blacksmith’s wife.
END
To my readers:
Thank you for reading my “Mistress Angel.” I do hope you enjoyed it. The following pages are first chapter samples or excerpts from my full-length medieval historical romances “A Knight’s Vow”, “A Knight’s Captive”, “A Knight’s Enchantment”, “To Touch the Knight”, “The Snow Bride” and “A Summer Bewitchment.” I hope you enjoy these, too.
You can read reviews of my work at my website
http://www.lindsaytownsend.net
Best wishes, Lindsay Townsend
A Knight’s Vow
Ever since she was fourteen, Alyson of Olverton dreamed of marrying a brave, charismatic young knight. His name was Guillelm de la Rochelle - and his marriage proposal satisfied her deepest yearnings. But her father forbade their union, prompting Guillelm to set out for the Holy Land, breaking Alyson’s innocent heart. Seven years later, the valiant knight has defied rumours of his death and returned home, having no idea that nothing is the same as when he left…Back from fighting in the crusades, Guillelm is stunned to find Alyson entrenched in his father’s ancestral castle - even worse she was betrothed to his father before he died. Despite this chilling fact, Guillelm finds himself struggling to resist the temptation to seduce her. Torn between intense jealousy and overwhelming desire, he shocks them both by proposing marriage a second time, justifying that it will be easier to keep her safe if she is his bride. Little do they know, however, that there is an enemy in their very midst - one who won’t rest until he destroys their chance at everlasting love…
Chapter 1
England, Summer 1138.
“Sir Guillelm has returned! The son of Lord Robert has come back to us!”
“Thanks be to God, we are saved! The young master has returned!”
Alyson heard the shouts from the surviving men-at-arms and jerked her head up, all thought of prayer forgotten. “My Lord Dragon,” she whispered.
Struggling to rise to her feet from the hard cold floor of the small narrow chapel, she re-pinned her simple veil and pinched color into her gaunt cheeks, feeling her heart begin to race. “Can it really be true?” She had waited for him for so long, she could scarcely believe it. Guillelm, here, in his family’s castle of Hardspen. For a moment she felt stunned with happiness.
“My lady!” The reedy voice of her seneschal, Sericus, floated above the hubbub in the great hall of the castle, calling ahead as he tottered on gangling legs to find her, to bring her this miraculous news.
“I am here!” Alyson called, darting from the chapel. Sericus was lame, and to save his withered limbs she picked up the hem of her plain brown gown and hurried down the spiral staircase of the keep, a small, slender girl with a mass of long black hair, large, very dark blue eyes and delicate features whose naturally bright, high-colored complexion had been dulled by weariness and grief. Longing to see Guillelm, she was reckless in her haste on the torch-lit stair, where only her natural fleetness of foot prevented a fall.
Would he remember her? She had been fourteen years old when he had answered the call of his kinsman, Raymond of Poitiers, and gone with him to the Holy Land. He had been in the exotic, dusty lands of Outremer for seven long years and she had despaired of ever seeing him again. For the last three years, with no news of him, there had even been the terrible rumor that he was dead. But he was alive!
Was he greatly changed? Would she be the one who would have to tell him that the enemy forces ranged outside the main gate were poised to attack? That his father, the noble and intimidatingly austere Lord Robert, had been dead for ten days? That for the last month she had been living in Hardspen as Lord Robert’s intended betrothed?
Chilled and appalled by these thoughts, Alyson halted in the shadows on the final step, raising a finger to her lips as Sericus came out of the hall in search of her. Sericus, understanding her wish without the need of speech, passed by her and limped out of sight of the travel-stained men standing by the log-strewn fireplace in the great hall beyond them.
“Lady, where are your serving women?” he asked in an urgent whisper.
“Gila and Osmoda remain in my chamber: they are still sick, as are many within this castle.” Alyson had left them sleeping, no longer feverish but weak.
“Let me summon attendants to go in with you, a maid at the very least.”
“You will be with me, Master Sericus, and that is enough,” Alyson replied, with a smile of gratitude. “You have seen to our guests’ comfort?” She blushed at calling the new lord of Hardspen her guest, but Sericus merely nodded his head.
“Yes, my lady. They have ale and bread. Not fresh or fine bread, I fear. The baker’s boy has been busy with the repairs and the baker has been sick.”
“Then pray allow me an instant to compose myself. And sit a moment, I beg you.” Sericus had been without sleep for the last three nights, as she had, helping her with the sick and with the ordering of Hardspen’s human and physical defenses - the re-mortaring of sections of walls, the gathering of stores, the checking of weapons, as their enemy outside the gate waited in arrogant strength.
“My lady, you are ever gracious.” Lowering himself onto the stone treads, the wiry, graybearded, headed-headed man sat with a tiny grimace of relief.
Standing in the gloomy stairwell, Alyson took in the scene in the great hall, the large, high-ceilinged chamber that was the heart of the keep, where in happier times Lord Robert had dined with his men on the tables and stools that were now ranged to one side. Today, long after sunset, th
ose warriors and men still loyal to Hardspen bedded down there in their clothes on the rush-covered floor to snatch a few hours’ sleep. She recognized their plain honest faces and saw that they remained exhausted, as she was herself, but that new hope gleamed in their eyes. Because of the arrival of one man—
Sir Guillelm de La Rochelle. She picked him out easily from the small group of soldiers who drank and warmed themselves—for although it was summer the nights were cold—by the crackling flames of the sweet-smelling apple wood. Tall as a spear, he towered over everyone there, long-backed and long-legged, with broad shoulders and lean hips. He was speaking quietly to one of his men, his back to her and with the dark hood of his cloak still pulled over his head as his powerful body steamed and dripped water from the relentless summer rain outside.
“My Lord Dragon,” Alyson breathed a second time, using the nickname she had given him and which he had made his own. She missed the sight of that mane of bright golden hair and even more his grimly handsome face but it was enough to know he was alive and safe. Giddy with relief, she now heard him speak for the first time in seven years as a castle defender asked how he and his few retainers had passed through the enemy lines.
“It is my guess that there is sickness and fever in that camp, as there has been here,” Guillelm replied, in the deep warm voice which had so often gently teased her in the past, “Your enemy has but few watchmen to stand lookout. On a gray, wet night such as this, those few can see no farther than the rainwater streaming from their caps. We slipped past them simply enough. After that it was an easy matter to bring my commanders safely inside Hardspen: my grandfather devised secret ways into the castle bailey and keep, paths which my father showed to me while I was yet a boy.”
“Your commanders, Lord?” asked his interrogator hopefully, picking up on the thread that Alyson had noticed, although she was distracted by Guillelm himself. He had turned to face his questioner and she could look upon the face that had haunted her dreams for so many years.
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